Chapter Text
It was quiet when I slid open the doors of our rented rooms at the Elfsong. No one spoke as we trudged into the room, and our companions who'd stayed at camp sent cautious glances or way, instead of their usual enthusiastic greetings. They were all looking particularly hard (while at the same time, trying not to stare) at Astarion. They knew we'd gone out specifically to confront Cazador, and while their relief that we'd all returned alive showed plainly on their faces, I'm sure every one of them was silently wondering about his state of mind. I knew I certainly was. I watched him walk slowly towards his berth. Gale, who was walking up the room towards us, for a moment looked as though he might say something – to offer words of encouragement as he was so often wont to do. But Astarion simply walked past him, without acknowledgment, staring blankly ahead, and sat down on his bed, his eyes fixed on some vague middle ground. I could see Gale reconsidering his decision to speak as it played out on his face. He shot me a look of concern instead, but all I could do was shrug. All I wanted to do was get out of my armor and leave this day behind. Luckily, I'd managed to stay out of the mess this time, so I wasn't too badly covered in blood and gore. I set my armor down near our travel chest, which had taken up a permanent spot near the fireplace. Graciously, someone had a fire going nice and hot, and I stood before it a moment after putting on some fresh clothes, trying to ease my aching muscles a bit. And to chase away this chill that seemed to linger around me. Conversations had resumed among my companions, but they were very subdued and not nearly as jovial as usual. Everything felt dampened and sour. It was then that I decided that what I really needed was a bath. A long, hot bath, with herbs in the water, and maybe even a strong drink besides. Wash away the day, blood spatter and all. A sudden thought occurred to me then, and it felt like getting hit in the solar plexus. My heart clenched and my stomach turned in a sickening way. Astarion was sitting there, covered from head to toe in the blood of the man who'd spent two centuries torturing him, whom he'd just violently killed barely two hours ago. If I needed a bath, then he needed to be wholly and utterly cleansed of the brutal and terrible remnants of such a heart-rending circumstance.
I walked over to the washroom and pulled the folding screen as far as I could across that end of the room. It mostly concealed the area where the tub sat, but I knew he would never agree to a bath if there were even people within earshot. I turned the tap on, and checked the wardrobe for clean towels. There were plenty (thank the gods for the day maid), so I left the tub to fill and went to speak to Halsin. He'd got his armor off, cleaned up, and was sitting in one of the armchairs, smoking his pipe and reading something off a sheet of parchment. When he saw me coming out of the corner of his eye, he set the parchment aside and smiled at me in a rather tired way.
“Hello, my heart,” he said, puffing a bit on his pipe. He blew the smoke slowly out of his nose and sat back in the chair.
“Such a day, eh?” I said softly, giving him a smile. I couldn't help but do it. His good nature was infectious. He held out his hand to me and I settled myself onto the arm of the chair beside him. “Could I ask a favor of you?”
“Of course,” he replied, returning my gaze fondly.
“Could you go round and ask everyone who bunks in the north room if they'd mind coming to sit here in the parlor for a while? I want to see if I can convince Astarion to get cleaned up, and I know he won't want an audience.” I explained.
“That should do him good. Do you think he'll agree to do it?”
“I hope so. He needs it desperately, I think. I can't imagine what he's feeling right now, or how he'll feel later. But I know he can't possibly go on sitting there, covered in blood. His...blood.”
Halsin nodded gravely, and gave me an encouraging sort of squeeze. We stood up, and he pulled me into a proper hug, kissing the top of my head and heaving a sigh into my hair.
“I'm not certain he would've been able to save himself without your help. If anyone can get him to look after himself, it's you,” he said. I nodded, and we walked back to the north room, him to speak to his bunk mates there, and I to finish preparing the bath. I turned off the tap, hoping the tub wasn't too full. The water was tepid; not nearly warm enough. But the bottoms of these great wooden tubs were always lined with copper or brass. I spoke the incantation for heating metal and watched as, in the depths of the water, the copper began to glow a dull, cherry red. Satisfied with that, I went quickly over to where Jaheira sat, near her bed on the floor. She was busy with a mortar and pestle, grinding something into a fine powder.
“What do you need, cub?” she asked, not looking up from her work.
“Have you got any soothing or cleansing herbs? Rosemary or lavender, maybe?”
“Check that basket there. Should be some lavender, at least. Take whatever you need. I already spoke to Halsin. I'll move as soon as I finish this.” she answered. To most, she would seem too gruff, but I'd come to appreciate her directness. There was something to be said for no wasted words. I thanked her and took the bundle of lavender, and also a few sticks of her incense. She nodded curtly, but kept to her grinding. I could hear her tapping the pestle softly as I crossed the room back to the tub.
The bottom had stopped glowing, and steam rose gently from the water's surface. I cautiously dipped a finger in and, finding it quite hot, I swirled the lavender through the water slowly, and then let it drift and steep, its soothing fragrance wafting with the steam. I lit the candles on the washstand, and the incense, and set the board across the tub. It looked quite inviting indeed.
But now for the difficult part. Everyone was in the parlor by now, and I was relieved to hear that conversation had picked up, though it still had a subdued quality. But there was talk, and soft laughter, and drinks being passed. Gale appeared to be working on something good for supper, judging by the smell, and I suddenly realized how hungry I was. But it could wait. First things first. I walked to the end of the row of berths lining the western side of the room. There he sat, as still and quiet as ever. In the dim candlelight, he almost looked to be carved of marble. I sat down opposite him, on Gale's bed. His gaze, off in some unknown distance, did not waver as I moved into his line of sight. I looked him over, and noted with no small amount of relief that his armor was clean. The beautiful elven chain shirt, woven artfully of the finest rings of polished steel, shone softly in the dim light, glinting with the motion of his ersatz breathing. How had it stayed so clean? Oh yes, his armor and most of his other clothing had bee torn from his body during the confrontation with Cazador. I shivered at the thought, and tried desperately to think of what to say . All I could manage was his name, which escaped my lips as little more than a whisper. His gaze shifted towards me, but otherwise, he did not move, and I couldn't tell if he was really seeing me or not. He seemed to look right through me. I stood up and crossed the short distance between us. But as I reached out my hands toward the buckles of his pauldron, the way he instinctively flinched away from me made my heart drop into my stomach. I backed up a pace and withdrew my hands. I knelt down in front of him – I felt like I was preparing to speak to a child – and said his name softly again. This time, he did look at me, and though his face was creased with unease, some of the tension in his body seemed to release.
“May I help you with your armor?” I asked. He nodded, and I started with his boots this time. He pulled off his own gloves, and I began to loosen the straps on his greaves. He stood up, and together we removed his kit piece by piece, laying it on the bed until he was in nothing but trousers. They were positively soaked in blood, as was the rest of him. It had all dried by now, but the smell of it lingered insidiously.
“Come with me, Love,” I said gently.
“Where?” he rasped, his voice choked with trepidation. I reached out and carefully took his hand.
“Only to the washroom. Please, lets get all this blood cleaned away.”
He nodded, and allowed me to lead him to the tub. His utter lack of protest was a little concerning, but I let it go for the time being. I was grateful for the partition that separated this area from the parlor. It allowed us to walk much of the way to the north room unobserved. At one point, Halsin did catch my eye with a knowing glance, but Astarion did not notice. He walked beside me like a ghost, his eyes downcast, his arms limp at his sides. His grip on my hand was loose and irresolute. The sight of him this way was so crushing to me. I'd not really thought of him as undead before that moment, but he seemed so lifeless that I couldn't deny it.
By then, the water in the tub had cooled to a comfortable warmth, and less steam was rising, though the whole washroom was now filled with lavender-scented, humid air. Under different circumstances, it would've been romantic, I suppose. But this night, it was meant for comfort, soothing, and the gentle healing of a very injured soul.
“You know...perhaps I shouldn't...” Astarion said quietly, casting a tense glance in the direction of our companion's quiet voices drifting over from the parlor.
“My love, you can't go about like this. You'll never get a proper rest. Besides, I've made sure we won't be disturbed. Just get in, won't you?”
He sighed tersely, but as I bent to get a stack of towels out of the wardrobe, he slid out of the rest of his clothes and climbed the little step up into the tub. He crouched in the water so only the very tops of his shoulders were out.
“Is the water alright? Not too hot?” I asked as I laid a cake of soap and a sponge on the board.
“No,” he said, so quietly. “It's fine.”
“Right, well, I'll leave you to it,” I said, and was about to leave, when his voice suddenly stopped me.
“You're not getting in?” he asked abruptly.
“Um, well, I thought you'd want to be alone,” I said, caught off-guard.
“No. I don't want everyone's company just now, but I think I need yours,” he said, turning his face towards me. “Please, stay with me.”
“If that's what you want, then of course,” I said. I got back out of my clean clothes and folded them neatly onto the washstand. As I climbed up into the tub, he shifted over a ways, and I sat nearly across from him. Little trails of pinkish water had followed after him, where some of the blood had begun to dissolve off of his skin. He sighed heavily, and was still sort of looking at nothing in particular. I wanted to hold him so badly. To fold him up in my arms and press him tightly to me until all his broken-ness was mended. But, as I'd become accustomed to asking, with him, and because I just couldn't bring myself to do so in that moment, I waited. Waited and watched him. After what seemed like a very long moment, he slowly scooped two handfuls of water up to his face and over his head. The blood in his silver hair, mottled and spread by the water, began to run down his neck and face, leaving rusty trails along his pale skin. He reached for the soap and the sponge, but as he began to try and lather it, he sort of fumbled with the soap and dropped it. His eyes closed in tired exasperation, and as his head tilted back, I knew he was trying desperately to hold back tears.
I picked up the soap and sponge from where he'd left them floating, worked up some lather, and then gently took his right hand – the one so covered in blood that his skin looked completely red. His chest hitched as he watched me scrub first the back of his hand, then his palm, and each of his fingertips, paying special attention to his nails, as he loathed dirt being under them at even the best of times. When they were clean, I leaned in and kissed the inside of his wrist before continuing to run the sponge up and down his arm, and then across his shoulders. I moved directly in from of him in order to reach his left arm and hand. When I'd finished that, I set the soap and sponge up on the board again, and crossed the tub. The cooler air of the room hit my bath-warmed skin as I stood and reached over to take a facecloth from the washstand. When I turned back around to face him, I could see he'd been looking directly at me, but when I tried to meet his gaze, his eyes shifted down to the surface of the water. I waded closer to him, picking up the soap as I went, and then crouched right in front of him. I soaped the facecloth, and then, starting at his collarbone, washed the left side of his neck, and then the right. I made the movements of my hands slow and deliberate, as if trying to treat a wounded, frightened animal. After all, beneath his mask, his heart was just that; wounded and frightened. He was trying with all his might to keep it hidden, but his eyes betrayed everything, as usual. Sighing, I laid the facecloth aside and brought handfuls of water up to his neck and chest to rinse away the soap. He closed his eyes, laying his head back on the edge of the tub, letting me carry on for a few minutes.
“May I wash your hair?” I asked. He raised his head and nodded. I moved over a bit closer to the board and crouched with my back against the tub, my feet tucked under my bottom. With both of us in it, the water was very high, and sitting like this, even our shoulders were covered.
“Come here,” I said softly, and he did so with the smallest of nods, standing up and then perching himself on my lap, his back towards me, his body nearly weightless in the water. I had to stifle a gasp when I finally got a long look at his back. Even in the dim candlelight, I could tell that his scars were reddened and angry-looking. I must not have been entirely successful in keeping my surprise to myself, however.
“What is it?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at me.
“Your scars!” I answered, touching one ever so gently with a fingertip. “Do they hurt? They're red.”
“They feel...tight, and irritated. Almost..swollen,” he explained hesitantly, as if struggling to put the sensation into words.
“Maybe Jaheira has a salve that will help. I can ask her later. For now, just keep under the water as much as you can. Hopefully the lavender will soothe them a bit.” I said. I parted my knees, and he sunk down until the water was up to his shoulders again. I worked up a good lather, and then ran my hands up the back of his neck and into his hair. He let out a soft groan as I gently worked the soap into his scalp with my fingertips. As I went along, his body gradually relaxed until he was lying back against me, his forearms resting on the tops of my thighs to keep from sinking further below the surface of the water. He laid his head back on my right shoulder, his eyes half-closed, staring off into nothing. I scooped more handfuls of water over his head to rinse it, his curls flattened by the weight of the water. I combed his hair back from his forehead with my fingers, and then, wrapping my arms loosely around his rib cage, laid my cheek against his neck. When he finally spoke, I felt his voice resonating in his throat, even though it was scarcely above a whisper.
“What if it's true?” he mused cryptically.
“What do you mean?”
“The things he said. All the terrible things he said to me. Weak...pathetic...that I'll never amount to anything except something to be consumed?”
As he spoke, I could feel his body tensing again, the muscles of his back and shoulders bunching themselves into knots. He drew a sharp breath, and when he let it out again, it shuddered.
“How can you love me?” he continued, his voice choked and strained now with all the heartache he'd been trying to hold in. I could feel his jaw tremble. “I'll never be anything but this...this thing that he made me. A walking corpse with a bottomless pit of hunger where my soul should be,” he spat, his shaking voice full of contempt. “I can only give you cold flesh. The stench of death, masked with flattery and false promises. A mockery of life. The touch of a dead man. You deserve so much better; so much more than I can be.”
I tightened my arms around his chest, pulling him closer against me. He did not protest, but neither did he relax. He was as tense as a coiled bit of spring steel, and his whole body trembled.
“Astarion, stop this now,” I said, trying to sound both adamant and earnest. “That's not you talking. Those are only his words in your mouth. He was telling you every lie he could think of in a last, panicked effort to bring you under his control again. The desperate words of a man who, having lived for hundreds of years, knows death has finally come to meet him. But you are free of him, for all time.”
He drew another sharp breath, and let out a shuddering sob – a faint echo of the wail he let go of as he knelt before Cazador's destroyed and bloodied body. I held as tightly as I dared while long, breathy cries fell one after the other from his lips. His fingers dug into the muscles of my thighs, and I pressed my cheek hard against his neck, trying desperately to reinforce the fact that I was there, and that he wasn't alone. Gradually, all his strength was spent, and his sobbing subsided. He heaved one last great quavering sigh, and then was still, all his tension finally wrung out. His body lay against mine like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
“Astarion, look at me,” I said, after a long, silent moment had passed. He lifted himself up and turned around to face me. But, he didn't raise his eyes to mine, and instead, kept his chin down. His wet hair hung, a lank and dripping curtain, over the right side of his forehead. I reached out and caressed his face cautiously. His eyes closed and his brow creased as he leaned into my touch, pressing his cheek into my palm.
“But I do love you. Just as you have been, just as you are now. I know that despite the fact you've freed yourself, you have many conflicting feelings about all that's happened. I know such deep wounds can't be healed so quickly, can't be wished away. You have to feel them fully, these things, before you let them go. It will take time. But I'm here with you – for you. My caring for you will never falter,” I said. “Whatever you need, I will do my best to give to you.”
I raised my other hand to sweep away the hair from his forehead, and then cupped his face in my palms. I had never seen him cry before, but as he broke down now, for the third time today, I realized how deeply his trust in me must run. For him to be this vulnerable was a gift I would always hold deep inside myself. I let go of his face, not wanting to stifle his release of emotions. But as soon as I did, his eyes, full of tears, lifted to mine, and his hands raised out of the water, reaching towards me.
“No! Don't let go,” he pleaded in a shaking voice. “Please hold me.”
I pulled him against me, wrapping my arms around him. He did likewise, pressing his body into mine and burying his face against my neck. His hands clutched at my back desperately as his breath, always cool, puffed against my skin with each of his quiet sobs. I stroked his hair gently a few times, and laid a hand on the back of his neck. We stayed like that until his tears waned and he was able to lift head off my shoulder. His eyes were tired, but he'd gained some true calm, and he let me give him a soft kiss.
“Come on, my Love. Let it all run off yourself. Leave it behind in the water. It's getting cold anyway,” I said quietly. He nodded, and we climbed out of the tub, wrapping ourselves in the big soft towels. He cast a sad sort of look at is blood-soaked trousers, which lay where he'd left them on the floor. “Never mind those. We'll get them sorted later,” I said. He sighed, and picked up his underwear. He pulled them on, and once I was dressed, we walked back to his berth. All the others were still in the parlor. I sat on Gale's bed as Astarion rummaged for clean clothes among his belongings. He settled on a black and rose-colored velvet doublet that he'd picked up soon after we'd arrived in the city. By the time he was dressed, he was seeming more and more like himself again.
“Do you want to come out and sit for a while by the fire?” I asked, standing and straightening his collar a bit. His hair was still drying, but otherwise, he looked as beautiful as ever.
“No, I don't think I will, Love. You go on,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I need to sit and think for a while. But, listen, come find me before you turn in for the night. We'll share a cup of wine or two. Alright?” he said.
“Alright. Do you want to...I mean, you can feed on me tonight, if you need to,” I offered, trying to make it sound casual.
“Perhaps, but you know, it's entirely possible that, for a change, I've had all the blood I can stand today, Love. I do appreciate your generosity, all the same,” he explained, his brow knitting briefly. I nodded, and we shared one more tender kiss before I left him there, to go sit with our other companions. He even gave me the faintest trace of a smile as I turned to go.
“Melora,” he said, stopping me in my tracks. I turned back towards him. “Thank you. For everything,” he said pointedly, his ruby eyes looking directly into mine. I gave him back a smile before going to join our friends.